


Save a Line

by enigma731



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dancing, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Undercover, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He still has vivid memories of fighting beside her in the battle, has to admit that her skill, her sheer audacity in the face of death, has haunted his thoughts over the past few weeks. He can’t seem to stop picturing the way her body sliced through the air as she leapt after the Chitauri soldier, the way the impact of her weight felt against his shield.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Three times Steve and Natasha were not on a date, plus one time they totally were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save a Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



> Thanks to my cheerleaders, who never fail to have my back when I need them most.

_When the train pulls out at dawn_  
 _Will it be something that's gone_  
 _In the rubble and the steam_  
 _Will you save a line for me_  
 _When my back's against the wall_  
 _And there's no one else to call_  
 _With the bell down on me_  
 _Will you save a line for me_  
([X](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/matkearney/savealine.html))

1.

Six weeks after the battle of New York, Steve finds himself back at S.H.I.E.L.D., sitting on his hands. It isn’t how he’s planned for things to turn out--although, on second thought, he isn’t exactly sure _what_ he expected, when being here at all, having leapt across decades, still feels entirely surreal.

Either way, he’s never been made for inaction. In some ways, it feels almost like being back in his old body, forced to wait around despite being painfully aware of all the work needing to be done in the war. Being turned down at every opportunity where he’s tried to offer a hand. But now that the immediate clean-up is over, the gears of government intelligence are spinning again, trying to sort out the mess. Trying to understand how an agency which prides itself on protecting the future has been caught so completely off guard, helpless. Fury is holding a list of meetings a mile long, probably starting projects Steve can’t even imagine. Captain America, as it turns out, does not have the clearance to be told much about the current status of the Union.

That’s how he finds himself back in the gym, training for hours on end--because he needs it to pass the field exams, to get back into the fray, but also because if he doesn’t do _something_ , he’s going to end up thinking way too much for his own good. For a few precious moments, he’d begun to feel a sense of belonging again, begun to feel like he might be a part of a team that needed him, an organization that could harness his skills. Now he feels more alone than ever.

He’s just finished a run on the treadmill--because sudden notoriety does not make for very good outside exercise--when the door to his chosen studio swings open. Steve can’t identify the quiet footfalls at first, has a moment of apprehension that he’s in for yet another one of the uncomfortable social encounters that seem to punctuate his days of late. He’s picked this room to begin with because it’s older, because it’s hidden on one of the lower floors, because he’s noticed that the other agents seldom come to train here.

When he finally turns and catches sight of Natasha standing a few feet away, he isn’t sure what to feel. He still has vivid memories of fighting beside her in the battle, has to admit that her skill, her sheer audacity in the face of death, has haunted his thoughts over the past few weeks. He can’t seem to stop picturing the way her body sliced through the air as she leapt after the Chitauri soldier, the way the impact of her weight felt against his shield. He hasn’t seen her much since they all parted ways, though, has instead been acutely aware of her peripheral presence at S.H.I.E.L.D., wondering how he might ever begin a conversation with her if given the chance. He still has no real idea how to do that, he thinks, no clues what two people like them might have in common. Natasha is a paragon of the modern world he’s woken up in, all sleek speed and brilliant danger, all the things he can’t seem to grasp for himself.

“Hi,” he says uncertainly, stepping down from his treadmill and grabbing a towel to mop off his face and neck. He still has the peculiar sense that he must look a mess, that his cheeks must be red, his breath must be loud as a freight train. That isn’t true anymore, though, he knows; this new body of his can’t seem to get enough of physical exertion.

“Hi,” Natasha parrots, her tone almost disconcertingly similar to his own, as if she’s intentionally trying to echo.

“Can I help you?” asks Steve, when she doesn’t volunteer anything further.

She regards him in odd appraising silence for a moment, like she might be trying to decide what she’s doing here herself. “I was looking for a workout. Guess I’ll join you.”

Steve frowns, suspicion tugging at the pit of his stomach. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust her--though a part of him questions now whether he _does_ , whether he should. It’s himself he’s worried about. He’s still accustomed to betraying himself, in a way, still expecting to fall short of his own expectations, to be a fool. Natasha does not seem like the sort of person who’s ever fallen into that trap.

“I’ve been using this room every day this week,” says Steve. “Haven’t seen you here.”

Natasha shrugs, smiling in a way that makes her face appear deceptively soft. “Maybe I wanted to join you. That a problem, Rogers? This room too small for the two of us?”

“No,” he says quickly, suddenly feeling rude. “No, not at all. Just--curious.”

“Actually,” says Natasha, “I was looking for a sparring partner.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, still uncertain, still distrusting himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She just laughs and shakes her head. “Not worried about that. Come on, Rogers. I can take you. It’ll be fun.”

“You have a strange definition of ‘fun,’” says Steve, but he doesn’t question her any further, just moves toward the mats in the far corner of the room.

Natasha is dressed for a workout, he realizes now, in loose shorts and t-shirt that do absolutely nothing to camouflage the lethal lines of her body. Steve hasn’t done much sparring, never had time to learn much of any hand-to-hand techniques in the army, and is aware that those moves wouldn’t have been Natasha’s style anyway. He’s been going to training since becoming an agent, been picking things up faster than most new recruits, but he still feels oddly vulnerable as he faces her, feels naked without the protection of his shield.

Natasha grins as she gets into position in front of him, meets his eyes and inclines her head slightly before she moves. She takes off like the wind, gives him scarcely a second to react before she’s meeting him in the middle of the mat. Natasha fights in training like she does on the battlefield, a focused fire, deadly efficiency as she throws a punch to distract, then hooks a foot around to catch the back of his knee, taking him to the ground in less than a minute.

She steps back and holds out a hand, pulling him upright without any additional tricks, reminding Steve that this is a training exercise, a friendly fight. Still, his heart is pounding as he meets her eyes again, and she hasn’t even broken a sweat.

“Not bad,” she says lightly, but doesn’t give him any time to respond as he catches her muscles coiling into a defensive posture again.

She takes him down twice more before he finally manages to get the upper hand, picking up on the fact that she’s still favoring her left ankle ever so slightly from the injuries she sustained in the battle. Steve almost feels guilty when he finally takes her down after managing to sweep her legs, but she’s grinning when he stoops to help her up.

“Good,” she says, a little breathlessly. “Really good.”

Steve shakes his head despite himself. “You all right?”

“Yes,” says Natasha, the firmness of her voice somehow comforting, though he has a feeling she’d manage to sound just as convincing had she actually lost a limb. “Also, I have news for you.”

He blinks, his stomach doing an odd little flip at the amusement in her eyes. “What?”

“We’re going to be partners,” she says simply, letting that sink in for a moment. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Rogers. We ship out to Bangkok next week, so you’ll probably want to pass the field exam before then.”

She turns for the door before he’s had a chance to respond, and Steve finds himself groping for words that will capture the mix of terror and elation he feels over this new prospect.

“Wait!”

She pauses, turning back over her shoulder.

“Was this--was this a test?” he manages to ask finally.

Natasha is still smiling as she shakes her head. “No. Fury made the decision yesterday. This was--more of an ice breaker.”

* * *

2.

Natasha is intoxicating, bewildering, like a pure shot of adrenaline, the dizzying drop of a carnival ride.

Half the time, Steve can’t decide whether he loves or hates being around her. She has a maddening tendency to act without communicating, to make decisions according to her own strategy and instinct without involving her partner. Barton might have been on the same wavelength with her, Steve thinks, but _he_ certainly hasn’t mastered that skill just yet. And yet there’s a charisma, a strange seductiveness to her presence that has nothing to do with wanting her body--though if he’s being honest, he’s thought more about that than he’d like to admit as well.

Tonight they’re undercover, infiltrating a gala in Monte Carlo, where the bigwigs have come to gamble, and S.H.I.E.L.D. suspects that national defense secrets may be on the auction block somewhere in the back rooms. So far there’s been no sign of their arms-dealer target, or any other shady goings-on, though. Which is leaving Steve with very little to distract him from the sight of Natasha in a gold-sequined dress that’s catching the light in all the right ways. She’s seated at a poker table as he watches her, sipping a drink and laughing with what appears to be gleeful abandon. She catches his eye after nearly an hour, raking in a big pile of chips and blowing a kiss to the disgruntled table as she excuses herself.

Steve has been camping out on a bar stool since they arrived and she joined in the games. He’s supposed to be her boyfriend on this assignment, and that alone raises all sorts of awkward flags in his mind, makes him question boundaries he’s never quite established with her. He’s also pretty sure that he’s never going to be cut out for undercover work, feeling as though he sticks out like even more of a sore thumb than usual while Natasha blends seamlessly into the casino. He gets to his feet as she approaches, trying to swallow down his apprehension and look like the sort of man a woman like her would bring to a party.

“Hey,” says Steve, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The fabric of his suit feels oppressively thick, too tight through the neck and shoulders. It also feels too formal for him, and he can’t quite shake the feeling that any one of the other party goers might come up to him and question how he’s managed to afford an outfit like this, to be here at all.

“Hi,” says Natasha, resting a hand on his wrist, her fingers feeling hot against his skin. “We’re going to dance now.”

“Wait,” he stammers, as she loops her arm through his and begins guiding him toward the floor at the front of the room. He has fleeting recollections of disastrous attempts at dates set up by Bucky, of breathlessly attempting to keep up with music in some semblance of the steps he’s never learned.

“What?” asks Natasha, barely pausing as they get to the edge of the crowd and Steve tries to take it all in.

He’s never felt able to dance, never felt that he knew what he was doing, but he most _certainly_ doesn’t understand the way these people seem to be moving now, half of them contorting their bodies into positions he thinks ought to be viewed as ridiculous. In this world, he has no idea what _good_ dancing actually looks like.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says quickly, all too aware that he’s failing at the persona he’s supposed to be approximating tonight, failing at being her self-assured companion.

“Colin does,” says Natasha, a not-so-subtle reminder that he isn’t supposed to be himself right now. She takes a few more steps forward, backing him up until he’s enveloped in the crowd, then wraps an arm around his neck and leans in, the length of her body pressed against his as she falls into the heavy bass rhythm.

Steve takes a moment to ground himself, to begin at least swaying in a way that he thinks approximates some of what’s going on around him. Uncertain as he is, he has to admit that he’s also enjoying the attention from Natasha, the excuse to be close to her in ways he’d never allow himself otherwise, would never even consider outside of fantasy.

“See?” she asks, leaning in to speak directly in his ear, the only way to be heard at this proximity to the speakers. “Not so bad.”

He shakes his head, then clears his throat. “No.” He should keep talking, he thinks, struggling to come up with something to say as he continues trying to scan the room, to keep their mission objectives in mind. “Looked like you were tearing it up in the poker game.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Left a few guys pretty sore. Should probably watch my back for a bit.”

Steve hesitates, wondering whether that’s supposed to be some sort of sign, then decides it isn’t when she meets his eyes again. Natasha could take a few gamblers with hurt feelings with both hands tied behind her back. “Poker’s definitely your game.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, a rabid grin splitting her face. “I like poker because it’s all about reading people. Figuring out what they need, then giving them just enough to make them comfortable. The minute they let their guard down, you take them apart.”

“What do I need?” asks Steve, unable to resist, though he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to trust anything she says right now anyway.

She just shakes her head, her eyes fixed on a point over his left shoulder. “Time to go.”

He turns just in time to see their target finally making an appearance at the Blackjack table.

* * *

3.

Four months pass after S.H.I.E.L.D. falls, and Steve doesn’t hear from Natasha. He moves on with his search, travels three continents looking for Bucky before the trail goes utterly cold again. It isn’t over—he isn’t ready to accept that—but there are more pressing things the world needs from him, with HYDRA back on the list of public enemies. So he finds himself back in New York, in a new apartment, once again awaiting orders and feeling more alone than ever.

This time Natasha arrives in the dead of night, doesn’t even knock. He awakens to the sounds of an intruder in his apartment, has his shield in his hand when he turns on the lights to find her already inside of his living room, bleeding from a frighteningly large gash over her right eyebrow.

“Natasha,” he breathes, putting the shield down immediately and moving to help her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she sways unsteadily on her feet. “What happened? Were you followed?”

She shakes her head and winces, and for one terrible moment, he thinks she might pass out right there, might lapse into a coma in the middle of his carpeted floor. She doesn’t, though, is probably too stubborn for that.

“I’m not going to talk about it. Not going to put you in danger that way. But I’m alone, and I didn’t lead anyone here. You know that I know better than that, Steve.”

He sighs. “I also know that sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

She doesn’t respond as he helps her toward the couch, seems to be expending all of her energy on remaining upright and putting one foot in front of the other. She must have injuries besides the head wound, he sees now. Natasha has a pronounced limp as she crosses the room and sinks down onto the cushions; her left side’s never been quite the same since New York, and tonight she’s favoring her knee. There’s road rash along the length of her arm as well, and Steve decides he doesn’t want to consider how much that’s going to hurt once the initial adrenaline wears off. But the head injury is still the most concerning right now, blood slithering down her temple, though it’s begun to slow.

“Concussion?” he asks, as he ducks into the bathroom to grab his first-aid kit. He hasn’t had occasion to use it on himself—most of his injuries heal too quickly for that—but he still keeps it on hand out of habit, out of good practice.

“Probably,” says Natasha.

“We should get you to a hospital,” says Steve, sitting beside her and pulling some gauze out of the kit. He pours antiseptic onto it and holding it in her direction. When she doesn’t respond, he shifts a little closer, resting one hand tentatively along her jaw before beginning to clean away the blood.

She hisses in pain, but doesn’t move to stop him. “No. More dangerous than it’s worth.”

Just about everything is, since S.H.I.E.L.D. crumbled, thinks Steve, but he doesn’t say that. He knows how hard she’s been working to stay out of the public eye, to restore her anonymity. He trusts her too much to jeopardize her work out of his own concern.

“Well you’re not dying on my watch, Romanoff,” he insists, letting some of his anxiety slip through the filter as he carefully bandages the cut.

She laughs bitterly, then stops when that apparently causes pain. “Not happening. That would be far too easy.”

Steve sighs and pauses, regarding her for a long moment. “What do you need right now, Nat?”

“Just a place to be safe for a bit,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. “I know you’ll give me that.”

He nods, swallowing down the realization of how much he’s missed her, how lonely he’s been. Instead he forces himself into action again, forcing himself into the kitchen in search of food and drink.

When he returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug of tea, he finds her curled up in the corner of his couch, already sound asleep. Wincing sympathetically, Steve sets the mug on the table and goes to fetch the blanket from his bed, draping it over both of them before settling in to keep watch for the rest of the night.

* * *

+1

It’s scarcely been a week since Natasha moved into the Tower when she appears at the door to Steve’s quarters. He jumps at the knock, having spent most of the afternoon absorbed in a new drawing. For once the world’s been relatively quiet, and he’s enjoying a few days’ break from missions. But now it’s well past dinnertime, he realizes, the sun having sunk onto the horizon while he was lost in his mind’s eye, in the satisfaction of pencil on paper.

“Come with me,” says Natasha, when he opens the door.

Steve blinks. She’s dressed in a faded old t-shirt and jeans with a rip at the knee, so he doesn’t think she means out of the building, out in public. He’s still having trouble accepting the idea that they all live together now, that her quarters are only a couple of floors up, that after so many months of evasion and protracted silences, he can finally see her whenever he wants to, or at least whenever he can get past his own doubts, which hasn’t happened yet.

“Where are we going?” he asks, though he follows her into the hallway and onto the elevator without further hesitation.

“Up,” says Natasha, punching the button for the roof without explanation.

She’s prepared for this, he sees as they step out, and he feels the dizzying little thrill he’s come to associate with her presence. There’s a blanket set out in the middle of the rooftop, with all the fixings of a picnic. For a moment it feels so painfully domestic that he almost questions whether either of them belongs here, truly deserves any of this. But Natasha looks entirely relaxed, smiling in a way that makes him think he’s never seen her be more genuine, and suddenly he finds himself hoping for things that are positively dangerous.

“Natasha,” he says softly, because he has to question, though it doesn’t seem like there can be any real doubt about her intentions here. “What is this?”

“What does it look like?” she counters, catching his hand as a night breeze that smells of autumn lifts the ends of her hair.

“It looks—“ He swallows, replaying the past year and a half, all of the moments that they’ve shared, in his mind. “It looks like we’re having dinner.”

She shakes her head. “No. We’ve had dinners. This is a date. This is you and me.”

He swallows hard, suddenly struggling to find his voice, surprised by her directness. Honesty from Natasha is precious above all, he’s come to realize, and she’s just offered him a hefty dose of it. “You want this?”

“I want _you_ ,” says Natasha, bringing a hand up to rest on his cheek. “I want to see where this can go. What do you say?”

Steve breathes the words in for a moment as the wave of adrenaline crests and breaks, as he begins to accept for the first time that this is actually happening, that there is no way he is going to let this opportunity escape.

He nods and decides to take a leap. “I think it’s going to be fun.”

Holding onto her hand, Steve lets her guide him down onto the blanket, and decides not to try and read the future in the stars that are beginning to appear overhead.


End file.
